Archive | February, 2013

You can’t handle the truth!

I think my mojo has sprung a leak.

I can hear the soft whoosh and whine of it deflating, like an airbed long used by porcupines. Though, my hope is it’s more of a falter than ‘flater and will rise again (like John Mayer from the ashes of dignity and seldom silence).

I have applied for a multitude of jobs this past month, with a view to leaving these fuckers, this industry and (Tori Amos willing) office work entirely behind. My resolve resplendent and my direction decided, the path before me remains as oblique and maddening as the plot of any Oliver Stone movie. I have trawled endless websites in search of my escape hatch, yet only the tiniest slivers of light promise exit. With no space large enough for me to fit through, I’m left to Mary Lennox; to peek through the vignette and wistfully wonder …

‘What’s through there? How do I gain entry to the secret garden?’

I don’t suppose I’ll be granted cobwebbed key via recondite room in the downdrafts of my metaphorical mansion, but that would feel most fitting. The descent of any avid moviegoer is the expectation to live in plot rather than real life; where musical montage bears the only reference to hardship and editing is your most fair-weather of friends.

Ironic then, that it’s into film and television that I foray … at the entriest of levels whilst attempting to keep my salary sane and thus refrain from becoming one of the great unwashed. If only I knew which of these vine-covered vignettes would take me there. If only poetic rhetoric were a stepping stone, rather than a sinking one. But I suspect my missing montage aint gonna crack it. (Fuck it.)

Back to reality then, with no more a starling Sentimental’s lament!

My next attempt is to piece together a living – one part old job, one part new. Part-time flagellation to support my daydream dazing and pursuit thereof. Lego careering, I like to call it. Such is the yellow brick road upon which I set my ruby slipper, with some sense of urgency and rising panic. For, in recent days, my workplace has become home to a pack of jackals who have my juicy hindquarters in their sights. And, as my fellow comrades resign and leave me behind to weather the storm solo, I can feel the last vestiges of my fortitude slip seemingly from sight into the Lake of Shining Waters below.

the wuc bytes – crazy stupid love

I feel full of pith. Like Pithy Longstocking, or Gladys Knight with a lisp.

“Pith it out!” (To be whooped in titillated Tourettes.)

This week, I’m doing my usual gig plus extra duties for the Big Cheese (the boss of my new boss). Or Blue Cheese, as the case may be. For, if we’re grading on the curd, she is indeed pungent, veiny and somewhat of an acquired taste. But! The result of this sojourn into the echelons of the executive set is that, for however brief a bout of flirtatious felicity, I now sit opposite a certain specimen of suave swain (aka the only guy to befall my fancy at work).

That’s right. He’s crotchety yet kind. Cynical yet slapstick. And blows Gay Prince clean out of his softly-scented water. But don’t call your yenta just yet.

Allow me to preface that with this: he’s married.

To him, I am but a waggish wartime distraction in a sea of suits. But that cannot damper my delight! For only once in a whimsical-weighty-while do I come upon a person with whom I own an immediate shorthand. Suddenly, the effort of providing Wuccan context melts away and in its place is a beauteous Bert ‘n’ Ernie kinda kindred.

Pastels of possibility float above my head like the amore borealis
… in shades of electric blue, haiku and breakthrough …

Sure. Experience has taught me to look upon such good fortune as gay giraffes might look wistfully upon the Ark … (that boat has sailed my friends), but. Sometimes it’s enough to find someone on your level, who meets your eyes with understanding before you even speak; who simply sees your subtleties and musicalities. Even if you can’t play happy hippo, bump bits or dance the cheesey ‘changa. Even if you can’t keep him as a friend because you’ve already lost in that there lottery of love (and men don’t see the point of platonic).

If nothing else, it proves the impossible merely improbable.

Fuck. Seriously? It’s like you’re photoshopped!”

Paint a portrait of my mystery.

That’s right wood. chuck. chuckers, it’s. Groundhog Day!

In commemoriam, herewith somethan I wrote but ne’er posted which depicts the demise of last year. Followed by something I wrote in the Spring of my soliloquy step.

that was then …

I’m living in an Aaron Sorkin drama.

Except without the rapid-fire repartee and seasons of success. Just a slew of sanctimony and propaganda aplenty.

My boss is back. The supportive and affable father to us all, ’tis indeed lovely to bathe in his calm once more. (Sorry if that sounds creepy.) Such was my faith, I assumed we’d all return to normal under the umbrella of his awesomeness. Turns out, even he cannot stay the bolting horse that has become our collective psyche.

The severe growth spurt which occurred in his absence left an indelible stretch mark, the relationships we fostered now bumpy with scar tissue. The perennial loner, even I believed my team was team enough to survive what became of July (aka Julygate). But in the blink of a pigsty, everyone escaped their wherewithal wardrobes and began freaking the fuck out.

He-man hurdle was the first to fall. Or more accurately – to be felled. Today it became official and he ‘resigned’, leaving in a hail of stunfire. More would follow.

But to tall this tale properly, I must go back to when the boss of my boss quit. (Oh captain, my captain.) No-one gave a crap about Cap, yet. After years spent kissing the dullard’s derrière, it begged the question: what does the exiting of one ass mean for their own?

Following his exit was a flurry of fellow exits. And, in pondering the possible passing of my own delectable patoodi, I surmised the next domino would fall one of two ways: either my boss would step into the Captain’s caste (making me his Governor General), or he’d drown in the political riptide and resign, taking my bureaucratic ballast with him.

It didn’t take a funeral home to see which way this granny was leaning.

Today dawned, pregnant with doom. And, like the roladex clock of Phil Connor’s morn (aka mourn), then came the slow-mo BOOM. The last denial domino fell and my boss resigned.

In this game of skullduggery, I just got skullbuggered.

this is now …

Another day, another hierarchical wedgie (to be said like Prince Charles).

Yet I feel the slow return of my mojo, seeping into my consciousness like the well-written propaganda that is The Newsroom. Dancing into my outlook like a tattler ‘n tap shoes ‘n’ top hat. Creepin’ up the back stairs like a furtive Fratelli. (I could go on.)

Today marks the end of a month-long holiday with my fam. It was grandiose, my friends. Equal measures angst, sanity and comedy. Like a Jewish soup, if you will.

Or a clown car.

The world is bigger among my kindred, where they hear each word I speak without need of amplification. I hear myself better too. Suddenly, dreams scribbled in crayon on the mosaic, prosaic surfaces of my psyche become riotous masterpieces, full of colour and promise. And upon return to routine, like a coma patient waking to discover themselves anew, my life is starkly apparent in all its wasted and waiting potential.

“Please don’t kill me! I’ve got so much to give!” – Howard Moon

Of course I knew all of this before I set out in my ruby slippers, toting my proverbial Toto. But nothing quiets the screams of flying monkeys so well as people who just. get you.

As a result, I return to work resolute and recalcitrant. Unknowing if they’ve found me out, yet uncaring. I hereby lift my metaphorical skirt to the public (not to be mistaken with pubic) once more, mid-plot in my escape from this malaise and its mercenaries. [Insert fist bump here.]


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